


Confessions of an Ideological Bodyguard

by china_shop



Series: Roommates (post season 5) [4]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Cons, Families of Choice, Fic, Gen, Houseguests, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 13:38:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1306810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>El cons Moz. Moz cons Neal. Peter gets visitors.</p><p>ETA: This can stand alone as gen, or be read in the context of the Roommates series as Neal/Peter. The latter is totally a retcon, though, so whatever works for you. :-)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confessions of an Ideological Bodyguard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Isis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/gifts).



> For Isis' prompt, "You're going about that entirely the wrong way." 
> 
> Thanks to mergatrude for beta.

"Hi, El, how's the National Gallery?" Mozzie lay back on Neal's couch, settling in for a long-distance tête-à-tête with Mrs. Suit for the first time since she'd moved to Washington a month earlier. "Do they still have that de Kooning in the West Building, _Woman with a Hat_?"

"It's amazing," said El, sounding distracted. "The job of my dreams."

"Which would explain your celebratory tone and boundless enthusiasm."

"I'm worried about Peter. I just spoke to him. It's eight-thirty, and he's still at the office."

"You married a man who was already married to his government badge. This is hardly breaking news, El."

"I know, but now he has no one at home waiting for him, he could work all night," said El. "Every night. This is how men his age have heart attacks."

"Are you saying you regret your migration south?" 

"No," said El, a distinct note of doubt in her voice. "But now my sister's visiting, so I'm not sure I'm going to make it home this weekend. I actually nearly told Peter he should ask Neal to come stay with him for a few days for the company, but you know what he's like."

"That is a truly horrible idea," Mozzie told her, blanching. "Neal Caffrey in suburbia, under 24-hour government supervision? He has an anklet—isn't that enough?" An anklet, and he was already dangerously close to walking the straight and narrow line; he definitely didn't need to spend more time with the Suit than he already did.

But El hardly seemed to hear Mozzie's protestations. "You know Peter. He has so few close friends. He can't even remember the neighbors' names most of the time. Maybe I should have left Satch in New York."

"To sit at home alone all day?" said Mozzie. "You did the right thing, El. But you need to drop this other idea. A) It's reminiscent of a panopticonical Orwellian nightmare, and B) you're going about it entirely the wrong way. It will never happen." Even if the Suit did pry his focus from his work long enough to recognize he was lonely, he'd never admit it, and at the other end of the equation, in the extremely unlikely event he were to ask Neal to visit, Neal would undoubtedly misinterpret it as oppressive, a demand for further oversight regarding whatever misunderstanding was currently complicating their relationship, and he'd make excuses accordingly. "Obviously, should one be misguided enough to want to engineer such a situation, the most effective way to go about it would be to con Neal into thinking it was his idea. That he was rescuing the Suit from a life of quiet desperation."

"Oh, would you?" El sounded infinitely relieved. "Thank you _so much_ , Moz. I can't tell you how much this means to me. Oh, darn, my sister just came in. Gotta run. I'll talk to you soon and you can tell me how it's going. Bye!" 

"I never said—" protested Mozzie, but the line was dead. He looked at his phone with narrowed eyes and sighed. "Well played, Mrs. Suit, well played."

 

*

 

An hour later, Moz was most of the way through a bottle of Montrachet, and Neal was sitting at the table forging a late-19th-century style, heavily ornamented picture frame for yet another government con. It was meticulous work and, in Mozzie's opinion, a terrible waste. Practically a perversion of the craft. They could easily sell the thing for ten thousand or more on the gray market.

Mozzie was tempted to lose himself in a second bottle, but he supposed El was counting on him. He came to sit across the table from Neal, sighed inwardly, and said with an air of casual disinterest, "So, how's the Suit doing?"

Neal was fashioning tiny silver apples for the corner of the frame and didn't look up. "Peter? Same as always. Why?"

"El thinks he's working too much." Moz picked up a blob of discarded clay and rolled it between his fingers.

"He's _Peter_."

"She thinks he's lonely."

"He's fine," said Neal dismissively. He fixed the apples in place and started on some leaves. 

Mozzie fashioned the clay into a rough model of his much missed villa in Cape Verde and waited.

About five minutes later, Neal stood up, stretched and went to get a glass for the last of the Montrachet. "I suppose the townhouse must feel pretty empty without Elizabeth."

"Or Satchmo," said Mozzie. "You know, El's having a great time in DC. Her job at the National Gallery. And her sister's visiting. Sounds like they're out on the town every night."

"Good for her." Neal was frowning now. For a con artist, he was alarmingly easy to nudge in the desired direction. 

Mozzie blinked at the miniature model villa on the table before him as reality struck home. El or no El, he simply could not permit someone as impressionable as Neal to spend every waking moment with a bad influence like the Suit. It was time to abort the mission. He was about to distract Neal with something—anything—else, but it was too late. Neal was packing away his modelling clay.

"What are you doing? You haven't finished the frame."

"We don't need it for another couple of days," said Neal. "Think I might head out to Brooklyn and check up on Peter."

Resigned, Mozzie stood up and drained his glass. "I'll come with you."

 

*

 

The Suit was on the couch watching TV when Neal and Mozzie bundled through the front door with their bags. "What are you doing here?"

Neal hung his garment bag on a coat hook by the door and stowed his overnight bag at the bottom of the stairs. "I'm your new houseguest."

"I'm here purely in a supervisory capacity," said Mozzie. "An ideological bodyguard, if you will." He kept his messenger bag close. 

The Suit ignored him. "I'm fine. You don't have to—"

"We can see that," said Mozzie, eyeing the towering stacks of case files on the coffee table and the junk mail scattered across the empty half of the couch. The Suit was wearing old sweatpants and a t-shirt that had seen better years, and there was a pillow at the end of the couch as if he'd been napping there. A pair of sneakers were kicked aside on the floor along with a single empty beer can. It was poignant bordering on pathetic. 

Neal moved the junk mail and made himself at home on the couch. "What are you eating? No no no no. Here, we brought burgers." 

He dug into a paper bag and handed the Suit a gourmet beef burger, which the Suit accepted without remark.

Mozzie moved the case files to the dining table, checking the names on them in case there was anyone he should warn of the FBI's interest, and then came back and squeezed onto the end of the couch. He grabbed the remote control and switched from the hockey game to TCM, where James Stewart was sitting in a bar conversing with a giant invisible rabbit.

The Suit didn't complain. He unwrapped his burger and took a healthy bite, chewed, swallowed. "Houseguests, hmm?"

"Just for a few days," said Neal with an infinitesimal shrug. "June has painters in. Elizabeth said I could have the guest room." He didn't even bother to make the lie convincing.

The corner of the Suit's mouth twitched in response, but he leaned back, his eyes on the screen, and took another bite. "Are there fries?"

Neal handed him the bag with the fries.

"I'll sleep on the couch," said Mozzie. "It's important to stick close to an exit in any potentially treacherous environment."

"Relax, Moz." Neal passed him the other bag, the one containing his burger, a dairy-free special with extra pickles. "No one's out to get you."

The Suit stood up and went to the kitchen, returning a second later with ketchup and three more beers.

"Seriously, you don't have any wine?" muttered Neal.

"Nope." 

"Maybe a White Bordeau or a Viognier?" Mozzie thought longingly of Neal's extensive collection. 

But the Suit raised his eyebrows pointedly, so they dutifully took the proffered beers and opened them. Mozzie sipped his cautiously, and yes, it was as he'd expected. Domestic swill. El owed him big time—he'd have to remember to tell her that. And they all settled in to watch the movie.

 

END


End file.
